Submission for the Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize

So I am working (feverishly–after all, isn’t “genius” 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration?) on finishing up a collection of “medical poetry” for the aforementioned contest (I found it through a scholarship website, but I don’t think you have to be a student; it’s not a lot of prize money, but the entry is free).  The submission had to fit a theme, and since I had the most poetry written about medical anomalies, I went with it.

I’ll admit, I’m not much of a “theme” person–I like to just “write whatever” (as evidenced in this blog), but this was a real challenge and I love challenges (writing ones, that is).

The collection must be at least 20 pages, so this, I believe, would cover it.

Complexities of the Mind and Body

Table of Contents

The Last Dance (Huntington’s disease)
Petals in the Wind (Capgras delusion)
The Moon is Blue (depression; lobotomies; electro-shock treatment)
Raining Bullets on the Fourth of July (PTSD)
Ace in the Hole (compulsive gambling)
Jeremy Johnson (autism)
The Memory Thief (Alzheimer’s)
The Hells of St. Mary (multiple personality disorder)
The Daily Mirror (body dysmorphia)
The Annexation of Angela (chimeras)
Her Fearless Symmetry (OCD)
The Color of Happy (synesthesia)
Seven Beautiful Days with Genevieve (bi-polar disorder; suicide)
Chasing Summer (seasonal affective disorder)
Waiting for Huntington (self-explanatory; I did a lot of research on this disease, and there was enough material for a book of poetry)

A Fairy-Tale Bromance

Once upon a time in a parallel universe,
somewhere in the land of Chico, Cali,
Frick and Frack set out to seek their fortune
in a land called Silicone Valley.

Imbued with the entrepreneurial spirit,
they skated their way down the coast,
dreaming of the girls they’d meet–
buxom Nordics just under six feet.

It was then they came across Spick and Spann,
hair as blond as their eyes were blue,
who cleaned their clocks,
leaving them hanging by the ballocks.

Penniless, but now scrubbed clean,
they found their niche that made them rich—
peddling implants to transitional dudes,
only to have to recall for making them too small.

It was then that Frick and Frack knew they were the true boobs,
and they fell into a clinical depression,
until they met Tit and Tat (a cupple of A’s from the San Fran Bay),
and renounced their profession.

“Beauty is big or small,” they preached,
“dysmorphia we will no longer perpetuate,”
and they lived happily ever after,
nestled in a valley of the Golden State.